LORD

CHILDE

"How sad it is!
I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will
remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of
June... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be
always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that-for that-
I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I
would not give! I would give my soul for that!" The Picture of Dorian Gray,
Oscar Wilde

In
the house of Spoken Word lived a man neglected
by time that moaned, made bang noises, and chanted low and monotonous.
He found love and killed himself for it. And out of this symbolic
suicide manifested a desire for completion and dissolution, the one
residing in the other, the whore and the virgin. The fool, I do
believe, had summoned up his magic art and spoke
passionately, nonsensically, concerning things of a mystical nature,
whilst with each masturbatory holler he grew older, discovered sin, and
was sated. There is no sense to it, no sense at all. Yet life is
mercifully short, composed of eerie remembrances soon forgot: and love,
that haunting mimicry of woman, precipitous and devout, consuming
the natural and the unnatural in equal measure.

A collaboration, incestuous by nature, between the artist and
somnambulist extraordinaire, the Phantom, did result in the spiritual
disembodiment and traumatic birth-pleasures of spoken word and dark
ambient imaginisms. It is not
insignificant that empathy played its part in the
ecstatic regeneration of body-parts in murmur-magic, and in the
unholiness of time from which the Phantom (in her symbiotic
relationship with the poet) gained much profit. It was while in this
deep ditch of whorish pleasure that the Phantom made sounds of a
frightful nature, utterances most strange, audible to mortal men and
cloistered nuns which the enviable poet was later able to record on a
4-track tape.

The artist dwells in
the house of spoken word, a castle keep of riotous dysfunction and
inbreeding which, nevertheless, allows for the libidinous discharge of
positive thought in the stink-hole of over-populated London, the man-trap of human sewage. Man's
creativity does not exist in heaven or in hell. Only in malcontents is
the betwixt world sufficiently awful that one yearns for 'creatio ex
deo' - an escape to God through God. And nothing are we that desire
less. We are Man and his love-ghost entwined in Wonderland, limbless,
yet perfectly formed in the seventh mansion. This is a dead man's art: k